


The Day Magic Died

by Impudent_Miscengenation



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Illness, Mentions of Character Death, No Slash, Oneshot, Past Character Death, Up for Adoption, open-ending, petrification
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:07:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23055976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Impudent_Miscengenation/pseuds/Impudent_Miscengenation
Summary: Merlin realized, too late, that the ephemeral nature of man leads to a blatant disregard of heritage. Further away from magic does humanity slip, and the world is made all the worse for it. All of the time he's spent trying to fix the world, and yet nothing he did seemed to help, or matter really, in the end. Magic was still dying. (canon compliant, modern setting, no slash)
Relationships: Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	The Day Magic Died

**Author's Note:**

> I've been thinking about the phrase "when Albion needs him most", being when Arthur will return. This is the result of that line of thinking. No beta, we die like men. If anyone has ideas on how they would want to continue it, and adopt this plot bunny, feel more than free, just credit me and give me a link so I can read it!

If someone were to ask the warlock Merlin when magic went into decline, he’d probably say that it started with Uther Pendragon and his Great Purge of Magic. He would also likely mention that King Arthur was to have mitigated some of the atrocities committed against magic by his late father had his life not been cut short at Camlann.

The truth of the matter was that the fall of magic happened slowly over the course of a thousand years or so. The Purge was certainly a catalyst but the complete destruction of magic could not be done in just one human lifetime, or even two.

The dragons were the first to die out. They were followed swiftly by the griffins, wyverns, and hippogriffs. Then gone were fairies, dwarves, elves, gnomes and trolls. When creatures of magic became myth alone, the world’s shift from magical to mundane became much more dramatic in a short span of time (at least, short for the immortal Emrys).

Healers were known as doctors, pyromancers became pyrotechnicians, evocationists turned to theology, and history was rewritten by hands that didn’t trust in the magic of the natural world. The druids lost their way, disbanded, and joined the rest of magic as legend. Remnants of their clans scattered and the modern world dubbed the descendants of their gentle souls “hippies”. As the Old Religion grew older and was forgotten, Merlin realized that he may be the only true magic practitioner left in the world.

Humanity, callous and ever-marching forward, favored the development of their technologies, their industry, over the preservation of the natural world. Ambitious fires consumed lands of wonder for the sake of progress. The future was steel and concrete, after all, so who had the need for an enchanted forest, anyway?

Merlin realized, too late, that the ephemeral nature of man leads to a blatant disregard of heritage. Not that evolution as a whole was a bad thing, but did it have to come with such sacrifice? Try as he may to convince the strangers of tomorrow that magic exists, and has existed for all time, his labor yields no result. (“Your sleight of hand is amazing; do you give lessons? I’d love to be a stage magician!”)

Further from magic does humanity slip, and the world is made all the worse for it.

War and famine tear through continents, hate and lack of common ground inciting violence as the answer. Death and destruction rule over peace and prosperity but Merlin knows that he, alone, cannot bring magic back to this world.

He is magic given form, of course, and is well aware that magic is dying.

——————————————————————————————————

Merlin stares at his haggard reflection through a dirty, cracked mirror.

He feels weak, his body like lead and spirit slowly breaking. Despite this, his magic chooses to youthen his appearance. Such a thing has happened previously, in his many centuries, and gives him little pause anymore. The difference is that, this time, it _drains_ him. Utilizing any kind of magic tended to do as such these days, so Merlin made a point to avoid using his gift as often as was feasible.

Before him is a man of thirty or forty-some years. Untamed black waves, flecked with silver towards his ears and wet from a recent shower, are slicked back and reaching the base of his neck. He’d recently shaved his face; the first time he’d done so in perhaps seventy years, mind, and he bore the cuts to substantiate that fact.

Despite being more clean and groomed than he had been for a while, Merlin still looked like death. His complexion was so white it had a nearly translucent quality, blue veins pronouncing themselves starkly where they were close to the surface of his skin. The dark, almost bruise-like color surrounding his eyes wouldn’t go away regardless of the fact that he’d been spending most of the past few weeks doing nothing but sleeping. The deep blue that had once reflected light and happiness had turned a stormy gray that sluggishly pleaded for an ear to listen, a mind to open, a heart passed childhood to believe in magic.

The warlock grimaced at the corpse-like figure reflected back at him. _I have studied, I have counselled and been counselled in turn, I have searched realms beyond ours for answers… For all that I have done, what have I wrought?_

Over a thousand years of waiting, trying to spare creatures of magic, even those he’d fought against in his youth, if only to prevent the inevitable downfall of his kin. Centuries of searching for hints or whispers, making friends with those who still believed, when there was the occasional kindred spirit. (Merlin had later discovered that many of these ‘kindred spirits’ were also very much addicted to taking LSD, but he liked to think of their discussions more than that fact.)

Merlin had not been idle while awaiting the return of his king, that was for sure. He had been appointed various titles, given different jobs, and even has made himself entirely unknown in the many years of his unending life. Recalling a few brought a smile to his face. He had been a counsellor, a poet, a bard, and a spymaster. He had also been an artist, an author, a bartender, and a professor. All that time, and yet nothing he did seemed to help, or matter really, in the end. Magic was still dying.

He was so tired of being tired all the time. Not for the first time, Merlin cursed his druid name and with it cursed his immortality. What he wouldn’t give for the slumber promised by death’s kiss.

Merlin decided that he needed a walk, a long walk to some heavily forested area. He always seemed to feel better among the towering oaks that could relate, at least somewhat, to the inequities of long life. Perhaps he could shake off his melancholia with some good, old-fashioned isolation. Leaving the dingy motel room he’d decided to call home whilst staying in Inverness, Merlin looked to the dreary, gray clouds looming overhead. There were still no whispers of magic.

 _Avalon’s lake is still yet again_ , Merlin thought, crestfallen, as he did so every day, _Albion must not need you yet, Arthur… I wish you’d come back; I need you, I don’t want to do this alone anymore._

——————————————————————————————————

Merlin stopped in the Ness Islands, having stepped away from the trail and into the heavily wooded areas around it. A small stream of water cut through the earth at his left, winding carelessly through the trees and stretching beyond view. Merlin cupped fresh water in his hands and used it to clear the sweat and grime from his face, before taking a moment to ponder his reflection again.

He appeared even younger than when he’d left, an adolescent just approaching manhood stared at him from the clear water. He looked younger than his magic had ever made him appear before and Merlin wondered why that was so. He looked as he did when he arrived in Camelot for the first time.

The bone-deep exhaustion had only gotten worse as he walked, and Merlin suspected that this was due in part to his inadvertent age regression. Moving to lean against a large tree, the warlock drew his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. Resting his chin atop his bony knees, Merlin sighed his weariness and his eyes, if not the rest of his face, betrayed his long years.

Merlin knew that he would wait however long he needed to for Arthur’s return, would gladly do so, but his heart ached and his mind was now more than ever prone to wandering. Was destiny a lie? Was he doomed to wait an eternity for a day that will never come? He was always poised for the day that King Arthur would return to him, yet every day he would feel nothing from Avalon. The water remained irenic, despite his clever and colorful foul-mouthing of the few remaining Sidhe.

So he continued to wait, to move forward but never move on, and try to make the world a more magical place in the process. He’d failed, of course. Just as he’d failed Arthur, failed Camelot. He had failed everyone in his life, including himself. His most recent years were the most melancholic he had ever truly allowed himself to be, simply because… he was so tired.

He moved, his forehead on his knees, and was the perfect picture of grief.

Under a canopy of shimmering stars, Merlin wept for his years of loneliness, his truest friends long dead. He wept for the withering magic of this world, and for Arthur. He always wept for Arthur, the man who’d once told him never to cry over such loss. But, then, when had Merlin ever listened to Arthur anyway?

It was a while before the tears stopped but, even when they did, Merlin found that he didn’t possess the strength to move from his position. He was only able to lift his head, watching the bright colors of the sunrise dance across the sky.

The world was still beautiful, the world still held wonder, and for those reasons alone, Merlin knew that there was some magic there, there just had to be. The warlock smiled to himself, half-delirious with the sudden wave of comfort that overtook him as the birds began to coo in the trees.

He leaned to the side, a leg tucked underneath him and propping his head up with his hand, elbow on his other, raised knee. In the palm that didn’t support his head, he produced a small blue butterfly, its wings shimmering with gold as they flapped. Merlin hummed in contentment. Despite the fact that this measly butterfly had likely tapped his magical resources out for the next several hours, Merlin decided in the moment that it was worth it.

His fingers gently closed in on the magic butterfly and it fluttered in his loose fist. If the butterfly didn’t dissipate by the time he woke up from a brief nap (thus returning the magic to his body), he would release it in hopes of the butterfly unleashing some magic into the world that so desperately needed it. Sapped of energy, Merlin closed his eyes and allowed himself to succumb to sleep.

The warlock never woke.

Starting with his lost, grieving heart, the immortal Emrys turned to stone.

Merlin’s true age caught up with the stone epitaph he left behind; hundreds of years worth of damage from the elements and plant growth spawned upon the almost unrecognizable statue.

The butterfly fluttered in its stone prison for a few moments more before settling, presumably to wait.

Hundreds of miles away, a lake whose surface had been placid for centuries began to ripple.


End file.
